


First Snow

by more_than_melody



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Holiday, Post-Ishval Civil War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royai - Freeform, Snowfall, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will I ever write about them kissing? Jury is still out, Winter, Young Royai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/more_than_melody/pseuds/more_than_melody
Summary: It feels like a different lifetime thinking of the heavy winter storms they had sheltered through in that old house in the mountains. Just a sliver of light in the darkness, a fire in the hearth in a house buried in snow, hours spent reading on the floor, together in silence.If he had known what would come after would he have treasured those memories differently? The last memories he has of that house are darker ones, but she is still the sliver of light.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	First Snow

  
  


It is the first time it has snowed this year. The first time it has really snowed, at least, drifting thickly in the streets and along the panes of the windows of the office. He's watched it all day.

Still, when they leave the office that evening – on time for once – the cold of it hits him sharply, the air almost brittle enough to crack, like shattering a pane of glass.

It feels strange – Roy has forgotten what real snow looks like, what it feels like melting on his skin. The steps feel slick beneath his feet, a sheet of ice beneath a thick layer of snow.

“Would you like a ride home, lieutenant?” he asks.

“I think I'll walk, sir,” she says. She is looking out at the snowy street with a set to her shoulders that he knows better than to argue with.

“I'll walk with you.”

She doesn't insist otherwise. They live near enough to each other now that it won't take him far out of his way.

It's getting dark earlier these days.

The snow is falling heavily and by the time they have gone three blocks it is thick enough that they are leaving trails through it rather than footprints. The sky is darkening above, fading quickly to the dark, velvety texture of a cloudy winter sky. The street lights flick on, one at a time _(_ _one, two, three_ _)_ , catching like gold in the snow in her hair.

They don't talk much as they walk – they have never needed to.

Still, sometimes he wishes -

The distance between them seems so far sometimes, miles and miles and miles and miles. He is still struggling to find a way to bridge that gap. The war – and the things ~~_he_~~ _they_ _did there_ are not that far behind them.

It feels like a different lifetime thinking of the heavy winter storms they had sheltered through in that old house in the mountains. Just a sliver of light in the darkness, a fire in the hearth in a house buried in snow, hours spent reading on the floor, together in silence.

If he had known what would come after would he have treasured those memories differently? The last memories he has of that house are darker ones, but she is still the sliver of light.

Before he is ready they have reached her apartment. He knows he should continue onward but he stops, hesitating in the light of the streetlight overhead. It slices through the velvet night, glittering on the snow drifted thickly over the walk.

She digs in her pockets, not looking at him but not telling him to leave either.

“Damn,” she murmurs. “Forgot the key.”

She has to brush snow off the doormat to retrieve the spare key from beneath it. The snow continues to fall, their shadows stretching across it the deep purple of a bruise.

He is standing close enough that he swears he can smell cinnamon with every exhale, when she shakes her head and sends her loose hair drifting over her shoulders. _(_ _She took it down to protect her ears from the cold, she said._ _)_

He pictures Hayate inside, his ears perking as he hears her voice outside, those curious black eyes wondering who she is talking to.

For a moment he wonders – _and only for a moment_ – if Hayate would recognize him by the way he smells. They spend so much time together these days that when he gets home each night and takes off his coat there's always a second where he smells her on his clothes.

_She smells like cinnamon and oranges because the expensive laundry detergent smells like citrus and that's one thing she wouldn't take a chance with - her dress shirts and her navy military uniform with the tiny patches and the hidden buttons._

_When she comes home, unwinding that scarf from around her neck and setting aside her coat does she experience the same thing? Is there a moment where she smells like the lemon in his tea and the cheap brand of laundry detergent he uses?_

"Do you have any plans for the holiday?" he asks, intending it to come off breezy and careless as though he isn't really interested in her answer and is only being polite by asking. Instead, his voice is deeper than usual, softer too and it sounds vaguely hopeful, which is not the impression he meant for at all, even if it is accurate. He frowns, puzzled because he's never had problems disguising his intentions before.

Catching his eye she smiles, a half smile, just a slight curl of her lips upward. It's an old expression and it surprises him.

"Do I ever, sir?" She sounds amused, tired and regretful all at the same time, which is something he has yet to accomplish. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, reluctantly tugging her bare hands from her pockets to do so. The backs of her hands are red, he notices, almost raw looking, and her fingers and palms are white, so cold the blood has absented itself. He wants to reach out and take her hand in his own, which are warm. He always seems to generate too much body heat for himself, as though he was meant to be with someone like her who doesn't generate enough.

He manages a half smile himself and a small sound that might have passed for a laugh.

"No, I suppose not." He wants her to ask if he has any plans, if he has somewhere to go, someone to clean and cook and decorate for. He doesn't, and she won't.

She doesn't ask the questions; she just answers them. If he hadn't known her for so many years he is certain he would know almost nothing about her – even now, with the weight of ten years behind them he still wonders sometimes.

“I'm glad you're not driving in this. It's getting worse,” she observes, looking up at the streetlight, where snow is falling thick and fast through the cone of light it casts.

“I don't mind,” he says. “It's a nice change – I don't think - “

His words catch in his throat. The cold that cuts through him, settling into his bones is such a refreshing change from his nightmares - _nothing but blood and sand and baking heat these days, the feel of skin, crisp from the fire_ -

“Different than the desert, sir.”

Of course she knows.

“Not just the desert,” he murmurs. He doesn't mean to say it but it comes out anyway.

“No, not just the desert.” Their eyes meet for a moment and in the electric dark her eyes seem like sparks.

Her body has memories of the flames too.

He takes a deep breath and the cold air sears his lungs and nose but God the cold feels like a lifeline just then.

She clears her throat. “It reminds me of -” she hesitates for a moment. “Of before.”

He doesn't have to ask before what, he just nods, looking up at the snow with her. It falls in a hush around them, the streets empty as though there is no one else in the world in this moment.

“I should go,” he says after a while. His feet are frozen and the rest of him is not far behind. She looks even colder, face pale, like a ghost in the dark.

She doesn't say anything.

"Do you want to..." The words die in his throat because she isn't looking at him anymore, but at the ground where the snow has settled around their feet. He isn't even sure what he would ask.

He can see her breath in the dim light as she exhales, crystallizing like all that went unspoken between the two of them, just hanging briefly in the air.

“Would you like to come in?” she asks. When she looks at him he expression on her face is unfathomable, something that is a rare occurrence these days.

Then she shrugs, almost apologetically, the smallest smile on her face.

He doesn't have to speak his answer aloud.

Inside her apartment is warm and she flicks the lightswitch by the door, the hallway light sputtering to life. Hayate greets them at the door.

This isn't the first time he's been inside her apartment but it is the first time he has been in _this_ apartment. The rug in the hall is familiar, something of her own, but the walls are empty, just like the ones where he lives. The rest of the apartment is dark, just shadowy outlines of furniture and boxes, still unpacked. They've only been in the city for a few weeks, after all.

“I can make some tea,” she says.

In the half dark of the kitchen she fills the kettle on the stove. Her face flushes as they begin to thaw and feeling is returning to his own face as well. Light from the hallway cuts across the tile floor but neither of them move to turn on another. He almost holds his breath, afraid to break the spell.

“Would you like to sit?” she asks.

He does.

The water boils, the hiss of steam sharp in the silence. She pours two cups and sets them on the table, pulling out a chair for herself.

“Thank you,” he says and although it's only been a few minutes his voice sounds rusty.

She shrugs out of her coat.

And then she is unwinding the scarf from her neck, tossing her hair over her shoulder and for the briefest second he thinks he smells lemon.

  
  



End file.
